Feather Castles (9 page)

“Troubled? But—I thought you said…?”

“Ar, I did, marm. She knows now what she didn't know afore, I think. What she'll be a'missing of, poor lass. Me heart bleeds fer her, so it does.”

“Excellent!” beamed the nun. Leaning closer, she reached to grasp the bewildered Agatha's hand, squeeze it, and murmur conspiratorially, “Then this is what I want you to do…”

Chapter 4

Rachel returned from her rather disturbing conversation with Captain Tristram to find Agatha still laid down upon her bed. The abigail refused the services of an apothecary, moaning that although she was “all over aches and pains” and her throat “scratchy as a hedgehog,” she was likely only sickening for a putrid cold. “I'll do, can I just rest, Miss Rachel,” she asserted nobly. “Sorry I am to serve ye so—just when ye needs me. But the truth is you'll do well to stay away! We cannot have ye coming down sick—not with M. Claude expected any minute! Sister promised to look in on me. Now you get on out of doors! Such a lovely day as it be. You need a good long walk!”

She had reckoned without her mistress's innate kindness. Rachel refused to leave and fussed over her so anxiously that the scheming Agatha began to fear her deception would be pierced. Sister Maria Evangeline, arriving later in the afternoon, was inwardly aghast to find her former pupil seated beside Agatha's bed, reading to her. The abigail's eyes rolled a message of helpless frustration, but the good Sister merely smiled, murmured placidly that she was sure Agatha would be better “by the end of the week,” and departed.

The following morning brought winds and building clouds, and by eleven o'clock rain set in to continue steadily for the rest of the day. Rachel busied herself in writing letters, doing all she might for Agatha, and fighting the memory of a deep voice and two dark eyes that seemed always to hold a smile. Enjoying the luxury of being waited on, Agatha was fretted by conscience and the fear that monseigneur would arrive before her ‘illness' had served its purpose. By the next day, however, there was still no word from France, and the brilliant morning would, she prayed, prove Miss Rachel's undoing.

A more tangible persuasion arrived in the shape of Sister Maria Evangeline. Having commiserated at the bedside of “poor Agatha,” the lady turned on Rachel and asserted that she looked positively hagged. “Change your dress at once, child, and get yourself into the sunshine! I will stay with Agatha and help her eat these bon-bons I have brought. Nor is there need for you to hurry back, for I've nothing to do the rest of the day and would welcome the opportunity to be occupied.”

Rachel thanked her but pointed out that since she had no groom in Dover, and Guy was not yet returned, she had better confine her wanderings to the garden. The nun became quite vehement, however, and announced her intention to go and hire up a groom and hack. “I want no arguments, miss! Have on your habit by the time I return—else I shall spank you, just as I was used to do!”

Since Rachel could not recall ever having been subjected to corporal punishment at the Seminary, this threat elicited nothing more than a ripple of laughter. The prospect of a ride on such a lovely morning lifted her rather depressed spirits, and when the nun came back, she was clad in a dark blue riding habit with Brussels lace foaming at throat and wrists, and upon her curls a jaunty little hat with long ribbons of matching blue velvet.

“How fetching you look, love,” said Sister Maria Evangeline fondly. “What a pity I could not hire a groom.” She saw disappointment banish the girl's happy glow and went on airily, “Captain Tristram was about to ride out, however, and has agreed to be your escort.”

A flush lit Rachel's cheek. “I trust you did not compel him, ma'am?”

Recalling the soldier's transformation from a polite but rather downcast man to an ecstatic young idiot, the nun smothered a smile and allowed that she'd not found it necessary to “compel” him. “Which was as well,” she added, “since I doubt I'd prove equal to the task!”

The gleam in those faded hazel eyes did not escape Rachel. Blushing, she frowned, “But—I thought you said it was improper in me to—”

“Good heavens, what missishness! To be alone with him in his cabin was one thing! But to ride out in broad daylight with the gentleman who saved our lives, quite another! Besides, I've already told the host that Captain Tristram is an old friend and charged by Monsieur Guy to be of assistance to you in his absence. Now—if you mean to repay my wicked lies by standing there like a ninny—by heaven,
I
shall ride out with him!”

The prospect of the large lady mounted side-saddle drew a giggle from Agatha. Rachel delayed only long enough to adjure her abigail to rest, before hurrying down the hall, riding crop and gloves in her hand, and the train of her habit swept over her arm.

Descending the stairs, she saw Tristram waiting in the vestibule. Her steps slowed. He was turned from her, but his height and the attractively tumbled dark hair were unmistakable. He turned as she approached, revealing a cravat her brother would have marvelled over. She thought with something of a shock that he looked every inch the aristocrat and, for the first time, wondered what his family might think did they learn he was associating with the notorious Rachel Strand. He came eagerly to meet her, and she gave him her hand, conscious of the alarming tremor that raced through her as his long fingers closed about it.

In the yard a groom led promising hacks to them. Tristram threw Rachel up onto the bay gelding, adjusted the stirrup with practiced ease, then swung into the saddle of the big black that the groom innocently assured him “could carry a mountain!”

They rode through the heavily trafficked streets side by side, and not until they were ambling along a country lane did Rachel realize how surely she had been guided. When she complimented him upon this accomplishment, he slanted his twisted grin at her and admitted he'd consulted with the stable hands to obtain detailed instructions of a desirable route.

“Whoever advised you was inspired,” she said, glancing around glad-eyed. The lane they followed was a tunnel of mingling greens, the branches of the trees meeting overhead to create a delicately waving canopy through which the sunlight painted ever-changing shadows on the lane. The scents of damp earth, wet bark, and hedge roses sweetened the pure air and, breathing deep of it, Rachel exclaimed, “Oh! How wonderful to be out of doors! Come! I'll race you to the cliffs!” She threw him a look of sparkling mischief, drove home her heels, and the bay sprang forward.

Tristram followed, but kept a check on the big horse who strained and fought the iron hand that held him back so exasperatingly when he knew he should be far ahead of that puny gelding.

They came up with Rachel at the edge of the cliffs. She had slipped from the saddle and stood holding the reins and gazing out across the sea. It was truly a glorious day, a few fluffy clouds decorating a deeply blue sky, a slight breeze ruffling Rachel's curls and setting the ribbons of her hat to dancing behind her. The sea, a rich blue green, was touched here and there with soft little whitecaps, and far off towards France the sails of a ship billowed majestically.

The beauties of sea and sky were lost upon Tristram. He did not dismount, but sat there marvelling at the perfection of this slim girl; the delicate features and determined little chin, the soft, fair hair, the dainty figure. More important, perhaps, her quick, merry humour that responded so readily to any teasing remark he chanced to make, and the sweetly earnest way she had of instructing him in commonplace matters that were taken for granted by her, but unfamiliar to him. Several times on the way through old Dover town she had undertaken such instruction, and often as she spoke a chord of memory had stirred faintly, and he'd known that the awareness of those things was sleeping somewhere in his battered head. Rachel glanced at him. He realized that he was staring and dismounted quickly. “Whew! You're a bruising rider!”

“You let me win,” she accused. “Not sporting, sir. However gallant.”

“Oh, no. You forget I'm an invalid and have to ride cautiously.”

She had not missed the lithe, unconscious grace with which he swung from the saddle, and said, “You do not look an invalid, but it was thoughtless in me. And to bounce about on horseback must hurt your head.”

He threw up one hand, laughing. “Acquit me of that, I beg you! Have you judged me to have a
very
poor seat?”

She had judged him to ride superbly and, flustered, answered, “No! I did not mean—” She checked, her infectious chuckle rippling out as she saw his grin. “Odious man! You know what I meant. But—does your head pain you?”

“Thank you—no. Save that my brain is so stupid. Is that an island?”

Following his gaze, she exclaimed, “Good gracious! I see I have my work cut out for me! That is Calais, sir! In France.”

“Oh, is it?” he asked politely and feasted his eyes upon her profile, wondering if he would ever have the right to tell this darling girl how he adored her.

A seagull swooped low over them, voicing its piercing cries, and shading her eyes to look up at it, Rachel said, “And—that is—”

“A feather castle,” he murmured.

Surprised, she asked, “The gull?”

“Oh—my apologies to him. I had thought you meant the cloud.”

“Is that what you call them? Feather castles? How lovely! Is it part of a quotation, perhaps?”

He frowned, then shrugged wryly. “Alas, I don't know. Things pop in and out of my mind so haphazardly.” She was gazing up at those vast white billows sailing high above them, and looking up also, he mused, “But it's a fine castle, don't you think? Turrets and battlements—the whole article.”

“Yes,” she smile. “An enchanted castle. I wonder if there are feather ladies inside … and feather knights.”

“But of course. And they ride feather horses, and joust with feather lances. All lances should be made of feathers. If only in dreams.”

She turned reproachful eyes on him. “Now you've spoiled it!”

“How so, fair maiden?”

“Because you have inserted reality into a delightful make-believe. All dreams are feathers.”

It was said with a trace of sadness, and unease touched him so that he responded very gently, “The feather castles of our lives? Yet some dreams come true, you know.”

“Do they? I wonder.” She gave a barely perceptible gesture, as of thrusting away a foolish notion, and said brightly, “Never heed my doldrums, Sir Knight. You are perfectly right, for is it not a dream that we should have such heavenly weather for our ride?”

Any weather would be heavenly he thought, so long as he could be near her. But, “Is that remarkable?” he asked, as they started to walk along the cliffs, the horses thumping amiably behind them. “It is summer time, after all.”

Rachel gave a little spurt of laughter. “Perhaps you are fortunate in that your memory is erratic. This England is the dearest place on earth, but a gentleman once described our weather as consisting of ten days fog, twenty days cold, and thirty days rain to every one day of sunshine. And I am inclined to believe he was too generous, at that!”

“He sounds to me like a Friday-faced cawker! French, probably. They're always bragging that their climate is superior to ours.”

Rachel said nothing.

“Was I right?” Tristram asked easily. “Was he French?”

Staring with rather fixed concentration at the massive loom of Dover Castle, she replied, “Yes. He is French.”

*   *   *

Two days later, Guy Sanguinet had still not returned to Dover, nor had further word come from Claude. Agatha's indisposition had proven stubbornly entrenched so that she kept to her bed and was unable to accompany Rachel on her walks, or her afternoon rides. Aside from anxiety over her abigail's lingering ailment, this did not present Rachel with an insurmountable problem. Captain Tristram was the best of companions; unfailingly attentive and good-natured, unselfish to a fault, contriving always to make her feel that her opinions were valued, and his rich sense of humour complementing her own so perfectly that often the witnessing of some droll little incident would cause their eyes to meet in a mutual sharing of merriment. It was pleasant to rely on his attending to small details for her, but despite his devotion, she soon discovered he could also be firm. At first he'd been so tactful in his dealings with her that she'd scarcely noticed if her wishes were gently redirected. With astonishing rapidity, however, the slight remaining shyness between them had melted away; they were now on the most comfortable of terms, addressed one another on a first-name basis, and not only were able to tease, but to argue without the least fear of creating an unbreachable void.

Walking up the stairs of the inn, stripping off her gloves as she went, Rachel was smiling faintly, thinking of how wickedly Tristram had dissuaded her from purchasing a perfectly ravishing bonnet this very morning. Half-sitting against a credenza at the side of the Salon Elegante, he'd surveyed the lavender bonnet with the faintest trace of a pucker between his dark brows, and murmured lazily, “I cannot say I favour it as well as the blue.”

“Oh, but the feathers, Tristram! Are they not dashing? So fluffy.”

“And so many. Truly, the blue is more becoming.”

“Perhaps. But—no, I cannot resist it!”

“Then do not. In fact, you are very likely right, for now I think on it, my maiden aunt had one very similar that was much admired in Bath. Her friends said it made her look youthful. Yes—definitely, you should purchase it.”

Aghast, she had scanned her reflection in the mirror, noting for the first time that the feathers
were
rather overdone, and the colour a trifle matronly. Leaning forward to peer questioningly at Tristram, she had surprised the tell-tale twitch beside his mouth and, bursting into laughter, had removed the disputed bonnet. “Wretched creature! You know I could not buy it after so horrid a recommendation! Is he not a villain, Madame? You see how I am manoeuvred to prejudice against the lavender!”